


scopus

by bookhobbit



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-12
Updated: 2015-07-12
Packaged: 2018-04-08 21:24:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4321287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookhobbit/pseuds/bookhobbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“There you are, Childermass,” said Mr Norrell, fussing with a jug of water and a wine glass on a little side table. “I have been calling for some time. I have a spell to teach you.”</p><p>The tale of Belasis's Scopus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	scopus

**Author's Note:**

> As I said on tumblr, dedicated to glendasugarbean for a) discussing js&mn and especially its magic and these two extensively with me (a lot of the sensory magic descriptions are hers, by the way), b) for reading the little fragment bit of this I sent her and saying nice things, and c) just for being the best fanfic buddy. And also now d) for beta-ing this and giving be some advice. 
> 
> Hopefully I've fixed the issues a little! If not let me know and I will work on it some more, but I wanted to post this and get it out of the way because I've been working on it for a week.
> 
> ETA: these events are going to be incorporated into a longer fic now. However, I'm leaving this one standing because it's rather different in tone and plot. So, yeah. Sorry. I'm very a very disorganized writer and tend to fold my headcanons up together.

 

  
_–might be considered memorable circumstances, but it is clear by 1816 (eighteen years later by most accounts) all Mr Norrell remembered was doing some magic at the time of the incident in question. He certainly had no recollection of teaching the spell to his servant (Clarke 550). This account may also shed light on the fact that Childermass claimed to have tried it only once previous to 1816, and to have not known its effects when he cast it (Clarke 546). It was reconstructed from a variety of sources, including a diary kept by John Childermass himself (as famously decoded by Heaton) as well as private correspondence with John Segundus. Readers familiar with the Restoration period of English magic may recall that Segundus was both Jonathan Strange’s biographer and the headmaster of the first school for magicians of the period. Peripherally, the fact that these two great magicians should have discussed a subject so personal supports Scyphozoa’s theory that –_

 

**November 1797**

“There you are, Childermass,” said Mr Norrell, fussing with a jug of water and a wine glass on a little side table. “I have been calling for some time. I have a spell to teach you.”

Childermass was so struck by this uncharacteristic pronouncement that he could not think of a single thing to say.

“I am sorry, sir,” he said, eventually. “I was on an errand in town.”

“Well, well, it is no matter,” said Mr Norrell impatiently. “Come. Sit down. Listen.”

Childermass did the first two with his usual efficiency, but was unclear as to how to perform the last, since Mr Norrell was not talking.

“Why do you want to teach me a spell, sir?” he asked.

“Why, in case you should need it, of course.”

“You have not taught me any spells that I might need before.”

“Of course not. This is a special case.” Mr Norrell flipped through the pages of Belasis’s Instructions, muttering under his breath. “Ah!” he said at last with some satisfaction. “The Scopus.”

“Scopus, sir?” Childermass knew a little Latin and Greek, and could hazard a guess at the meaning of the word, but he preferred not to shew his advantages if he could help it.

“Yes. It is a spell of revelation.”

“And what does it reveal?”

“Magic,” said Mr Norrell. He seemed to have rearranged the objects to his own satisfaction, for he left the side table and shuffled over to Childermass. “Magic being done in the presence of the caster.”

“And you wish me to know this spell because…?”

“In case you should ever meet anyone who claimed to be a practical magician, of course!” said Mr Norrell impatiently. “You would therefore use the spell to test their claims.”

Chidlermass regarded Mr Norrell. “Do you fear competition?” he asked.

Mr Norrell frowned and took his spectacles off. He fidgeted with them for a moment, before replacing them.

“There are no other practical magicians in England,” he said.

“But you’re afraid there might be some day.”

“I simply wish you to have the means to detect imposters.”

Mr Norrell was twisting a piece of his housecoat in his hands, which Childermass knew very well meant he was not being quite truthful. But he refrained from pointing this out, for it would only agitate Mr Norrell further. Instead, he said, “Very well. What shall I do to learn this spell?”

Mr Norrell cleared his throat and fidgeted some more. “You will need a glass of clean water,” he said.

“Ah. Bit like your vision spell.”

“Not at all,” said Mr Norrell immediately. He paused, and pursed his lips. “That is to say - clean water is the facilitator - magic makes much use of this power, especially spells of viewing and revelation.The Scopus and the spell variant I use for conjuring visions are based on related principles, that of the clarifying power of water.” He gazed sharply at Childermass. “But you will not be able to see visions just because you have mastered the Scopus.”

“I never said I would, sir.”

“No. No, you did not.” Mr Norrell cleared his throat again. “Well. It is quite simple, really. You begin with a glass of clean fresh water. If possible it should be from a stream or something of that nature. Water is more potent when it has been recently running.”

“I know, sir,” said Childermass. “You have told me before.”

Mr Norrell glared at him for this interruption. “One must lay the foundations, Childermass,” he said.

Childermass shrugged. He did, in fact, rather enjoy listening to Mr Norrell talk in his long dull way, although he would never have revealed this to anyone and did his best not to make it apparent. It was most exaperating. Childermass did not often feel attachments to people; the notion of falling in love was outside his view of the world. It was something that could be used, not an experience to be had. Only once before had anyone caught his eye. It was, he thought, almost funny that Mr Norrell, a man of no great personal or physical attraction, would be next. That the end result of this would be that Childermass would find it amusing to see Mr Norrell fuss about magical procedure and fly into a passion when someone dared to question it was even more so.

There were some things no cards could predict. Or maybe they had, and he simply hadn't read them right.

He gestured for Mr Norrell to continue.

“Once you have the water,” said Mr Norrell, “You - there is an incantation that must be recited.”

“And what is the incantation, sir?”

Mr Norrell began, “It is - ” Here he stopped and gazed at Childermass for some time, frowning.

“Yes?” said Childermass.

Mr Norrell looked away and muttered something indistinct.

Childermass sighed; Mr Norrell’s expression was familiar. “You called me into the room to teach me this spell, which you want me to learn to help you, but you are still afraid to do so?”

Mr Norrell ventured another inaudible remark.

“I have been in your employment for seven years, sir,” said Childermass. “In that time, have I ever done something to harm you? Have I ever failed to follow your orders except in cases where doing so would lead to danger for either or both of us?”

Mr Norrell’s mumbling took a form that sounded like it might contain the phrase “unclear circumstances”.

“Is this about the incident in Ugthorpe? I told you, there were cut-throats on that road. And I was right.”

“But the Duke got to the booksale before we did and bought up all the books! Imagine what might have been there!” cried Mr Norrell, agitated into speaking within the vocal range of the average human ear at last.

“Worth dying for, were they?” said Childermass, but there was no spirit behind it. It was a familiar argument, and one which would do them no good. “Regardless of what you think of my decision,“ he said, "It’s over and done with, and you know I did it for your good, not out of malice.”

Mr Norrell looked up at Childermass.

‘Why do you have me in your household if you do not trust me?“ pointed out Childermass.

This, at last, seemed to strike some sort of chord in Mr Norrell. Nodding, he put Instructions on the table and ran his finger down the page.

Childermass shook his head at himself. It was absurd, really, that he should stay with Mr Norrell when he did things like this. He was not surprized that Mr Norrell would be so reluctant to teach even Childermass the smallest spell. And yet...

He could be petty and malicious and callous and mistrustful, but he had hired Childermass knowing he was once a thief, when few gentlemen would have accepted him. He had given him a chance to prove himself. He let him take liberties that few masters would have, and thereby learned just how useful an asset Childermass was. It was a freedom Childermass had rarely experienced. Mr Norrell paid him well and, although he did not thank him or ever speak any word of appreciation, Childermass suspected that Mr Norrell could not do without him. Being needed was an old, old weakness no-one else had touched in a long time.

"Very well,” Mr Norrell said. “Here is the incantation.” He pointed to it. “It is very simple - you only need recite it while holding the glass of water in the air.” Mr Norrell gestured at the water and wineglass. “Now, first read the spell through and see that you have all your ingredients."

"I have,” said Childermass, “You got them ready before.”

“That is not the point,” said Mr Norrell, adjusting his spectacles in a way that Childermass knew indicated a lecture; Chidlermass had to hide a smirk at the habit. “If you were doing any other spell, the consequences of even one missed ingredient could be catastrophic. Substitute sea-water for river-water in Penstemon’s rain-making spell and you could have a flood that might cover an entire countryside! And even in this case, if one does not make sure of oneself before one begins, one might have to disrupt the magic, with all sorts of unpleasant side effects for the caster. Really, Childermass, I cannot believe - ”

“Yes, sir,” said Childermass, rolling his eyes. “I will read through the spell and see that I have all my ingredients.”

“Good. Now, next, you read the instructions, and be sure of the incantation and your effects before you begin. Dot not read the incantation out loud. It is wisest not to even say it under the breath. You should review it mentally only.”

“I have it, sir.”

Mr Norrell nodded. “Now you may begin.”

Childermass took a breath to calm his excitement and went over to the side table. He poured the glass of water, held it up, closed his eyes, and recited the words of the spell. He concentrated on the water in his hand, willing it to show him any magic being done, feeling the cold glass and imagining the water lapping against the side.

Nothing happened. After a moment, he opened his eyes.

“Hmmm,” said Mr Norrell. “Did you visualise?”

“Of course I did, sir,” said Childermass. “What do you think I had my eyes closed for?”

“What were you visualising?”

“I was willing the spell to work.”

“Try it again, but concentrate instead on sensing magic. Send your mind out, feel for it.” Mr Norrell waved a hand in the direction of a window. “Strain your ears for it, reach out for it.”

It felt intimate, having the secretive Mr Norrell advise him on the execution of a spell, something he would have died rather than see another person do under ordinary circumstances. Weighed down by this sense of closeness, Childermass began again. This time he kept his eyes open and rested them unfocused on the wine glass, let himself concentrate on touch and taste and hearing; he reached for magic, others’ magic, remembering the familiar crackly-paper-and-gentle-rain feeling of Mr Norrell’s magic. He concentrated on it, the way Mr Norrell burned like a beacon when he did some spell.

Childermass wondered that others could not perceive it. After he had come to Mr Norrell he had learned that not everyone was sensitive to magic, and yet it seemed to him that Mr Norrell, small dusty Mr Norrell, lit up as if there were candles behind his eyes. Even before he had learned to see this, he had been drawn to the power such a thin voice could wield, barely audible and yet somehow moving mountains.

Something happened then, like a whooshing of wind and rough wool against his fingertips, something like smoke in your eyes and moonlight on stone. This felt entirely different from what Mr Norrell did. It welled up from inside his chest and spread over him like lightning, then was gone. Childermass took a shaky breath.

Mr Norrell was smiling and clasping his hands in delight, something Childermass did not see often and which he wished he did not find quite so endearing. “It worked!” he said.

Childermass looked at the wine-glass in his hands. There was no change, nothing different.

“I can’t see that it did,” he said.

“Oh, you will not be able to see it,” Mr Norrell said dismissively. “It is not likely to be visible under the circumstances. After all, no magic is being cast except for yours. If it had been visible I should have thought something might have gone wrong.”

“If you cannot see it, how do you know it worked, sir?”

“Didn’t you feel it?”

So he had not been imagining it. He had done magic. Did that feeling, the sense of power, happen every time? He cleared his throat. “What does the spell look like when there’s magic being performed, sir?”

“I do not know,” said Mr Norrell impatiently. “The spell does not recognize the caster’s magic. It would be useless if it did. There are no other magicians on which to test it, so I have been unable to, and have had to rely on instinct to guide me, just as you felt now. All records on its physical manifestation are lost. Belasis writes something of light, but that is so very -”

“I could test it on you,” said Childermass, raising the wineglass. “Do some spell and I will cast the Scopus as you do. Then we will see the effects.”

Mr Norrell caught his breath and looked at Childermass. “You are not a magician,” he said.

Childermass did not say, _the library recognises me as one, and I’ve read more of your books and can do more spells now than than all other magicians in England put together bar you; what more do you need?_  Magic was the province of gentlemen, not of servants, and particularly not of servants who had been sailors and pick-pockets and any number of other disreputable things, regardless of how many languages he spoke, or how many spells he knew. It should not have stung so much as it did.

“I know,” he said.

He was too busy thinking these thoughts to hear that the tone of the previous pronouncement was quite out of keeping with Mr Norrell's usual. It had almost been sad.

“And yet you are still - ” Mr Norrell bit off the sentence, so Childermass did not learn what he still was. “You have acquitted yourself very well,” he said.

Childermass took this as an apology for Mr Norrell’s earlier distrust, and softened a little. “Thank you, sir,” he said. That was Norrell at his most typical, to Childermass; one moment cutting to the bone without realizing it, the next soothing without knowing that, either.

Mr Norrell nodded, and turned back to the table. “Now, let us see. We need a spell that is relatively uncomplicated but also obvious.” He flipped through the Instructions. “Fetch me Lancaster, Childermass.”

Childermass fetched it and halfway through drawing it down he turned to watch Mr Norrell searching his book and muttering, looking more animated than he ever did when speaking. He was so very stuffy when talking about magic; it was a pity he could not carry the passion he felt over to other people. Childermass looked at the book in hands, smiled at himself, and approached Mr Norrell with it, waiting for him to look up and notice.

This was the reason that Childermass could not leave. Mr Norrell was small and dull and fussy and arrogant and he never apologized or admitted to his mistakes. He was, in fact, a disappointment. But there was some mysterious quality about him that drew Childermass in, much to his reluctance and his own cynical amusement. Perhaps it was a kind of enchantment that even the most dry little magician can cast without realizing it. Norrell was the most un-magical person Childermass had ever met, and yet within him he carried a flame that Childermass felt only he could see. When he performed his silver basin spell, or made a statue speak, or made a flower bud to open and bloom in the middle of winter (grumbling all the while that this was the most trivial and domestic sort of spell, and yet testing it anyway for love of knowledge and for pride) - in these times, his rather plain face drew itself into a intense concentration that made it almost interesting.

The point of it, Childermass supposed, was that Mr Norrell was full of contradictions - weak and powerful, magical and mundane, kind and cruel - and it had always been Childermass’s fate to be ruled by curiosity and a desire for knowledge. He could not resist solving a puzzle.

He had not yet solved Mr Norrell, and strongly suspected he never quite would.

Mr Norrell looked up from his book and into Childermass’s face. Childermass knew that he was too close for propriety, but he did not wish to move away.

Rich lords might dally with their servants, but not ones such as Mr Norrell, and not ones such as Childermass; he was no pretty young thing to catch the eye of a gentleman, and Mr Norrell, whatever his other faults, seemed to have no interest in taking advantage of his staff in such ways. Yet Childermass could not resist satisfying his own curiosity.

He held Mr Norrell’s gaze and did not drop his eyes.

“Childermass, you are too close,” said Mr Norrell, but it did not have quite the same impatience in it as it might have once. There was a wavering at the end that undermined the reprimand.

Childermass placed Lancaster upon the table, reached out, and lifted his hand to Mr Norrell’s cheek. Mr Norrell drew in a sharp breath, but did not protest, nor did he move away.

Had Childermass ever imagined this moment - and it must be confessed in honesty that his thoughts had drifted that way a time or two - he should have imagined Mr Norrell reluctant to take any action. But there must have been some magic left over in the air, for Childermass could not say which of them moved first. He only knew that they both moved.

It owed nothing to the novels of grand romance that some young ladies loved to read; Mr Norrell’s cheek was not damask and his lips were not soft and velvety; they were chapped and thin. Childermass had expected nothing else. He seemed far too surprized by his own boldness and Childermass’s to participate, but Childermass let the kiss end unhurriedly; Mr Norrell was not shy about voicing his displeasure and had he wished Childermass to stop he would certainly have let him know, possibly by sending him to Scotland.

“Oh,” said Mr Norrell, softly and more uncertain than Childermass had ever seen him. “Oh.”

Childermass said nothing. He half-expected Mr Norrell to berate him for his impudence, or to sack him on the spot. But he did neither of these things. Instead, he only sighed.

“This is not respectable,” he said, but his tone was wistful rather than angry.

“It is not,” agreed Childermass, “But I have never been respectable, and you kept me as your servant for seven years.”

“So I have.” Mr Norrell sighed again. “And yet I cannot afford to distract myself, you know. The business of learning magic is a full-time occupation. I - ”

Childermass let the thumb of his hand, still resting on Norrell’s cheek, come to rest against his lips to silence his worries. “I do not ask you for the future, sir. Only for now.”

“I…have not allowed these matters to occupy my thoughts overmuch, Childermass,” Mr Norrell said against Childermass’s thumb. He cleared his throat. “And I think I would do well to continue. As I said, I cannot afford distractions.”

Childermass bowed his head slightly. It was comforting that Mr Norrell did find the prospect a distraction. Aloud he said, “Then I shall trouble you no further, sir. Good night.”

Turning and walking towards the library door, he counted under his breath, one, two, three, four -

“Childermass.”

A little weary half-smile flickered across Childermass’s face.

“You require something else of me, sir?” he said, slightly raising one eyebrow, though Mr Norrell could not see.

“I did not expect you to give up so easily as that,” said Mr Norrell stiffly.

“Did you wish me to persist in my advances?”

“I did not say that. I simply expected more of you.”

Childermass took a deep breath, and turned around. He walked, slowly and deliberately, back across the library to where Mr Norrell stood, wrapped in his oversized housecoat still, his small colourless eyes blinking rapidly.

He did not stop when he closed within polite speaking distance of Mr Norrell, nor indeed until he was almost, but not quite, touching him. Childermass’s height gave him a considerable advantage in this action, for he tended to loom.

“Sir,” he said, inclining his head again. “What do you wish from me?”

“I hardly think that an appropriate question. You are the one who - who - made your requirements known.”

“I shall reveal them no further until you tell me yours,” said Childermass, for if he pressed his intentions upon even a willing Mr Norrell, nothing would be resolved. Mr Norrell would only complain that Childermass had misunderstood him. “I am at your service, sir, when you tell me what service I can perform.”

Mr Norrell made a tsk-ing sound of frustration that was like nothing so much as his disapproval when an author was being unnecessarily mystical, and set aside his book. He stood on his toes and grasped Childermass’s jacket for balance, and before Childermass had time to be amused that such measures were necessary, he had kissed him.

It should not have been surprizing; they had done the same only a few short minutes ago, and he had half-known Mr Norrell was nerving himself up to take this step. Yet somehow the guess was different from the reality, and the kiss was different when Mr Norrell made himself an active participant.

 _All our differences,_ he thought, _all that distrust, and you’re still all want. More fool me._

_Well, you and magic. But I am not sure those things are entirely separable._

Not wasting a moment, Childermass pressed a hand to the small of Mr Norrell’s back, steadying both of them, and returned the kiss. Bits of his hair were escaping from their confines, but he was not troubled by them until Mr Norrell reached up and, with uncommon tenderness, tucked them behind his ear.

“They were tickling my cheek,” Mr Norrell said by way of explanation, severely, when Childermass pulled back and gave him a questioning look. “It was most vexing. You should take more care with your hair.”

Childermass huffed half a laugh, only a little sarcastic, and kissed Mr Norrell again.

It was only much, much later that he realized he hadn’t remembered to test Belasis’s Scopus after all.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I’m not an endnotes sort of person generally, but I like to imagine them subsequently quarreling over whose fault it was that they forgot about the spell. “You kissed me, Childermass. It was extremely distracting.” “After which you sent me away and then called me back to kiss me, sir, of your own initiative.” “Yes, but you were being very - oh, do stop smirking in that way, it is most provoking.”


End file.
